incomplete notes started as record extended as memory forgotten like an unknown unknown

 

first rites

 

& fed our souls with gasoline and ran through the towns like burning monks

 

& fueled by the fires of our unknown destinies

 

and the long narrative of our souls was inscribed in printer’s ink tainted with blood on our fontanelles/ while the nervous threads of our spines were exposed to the universe in a delicate tracery of light

 

when our souls would arc and fly like the wine bottles we tossed from the rooftops of the city, brief suspended moment in space, sweet arc of infinity, empty, pure, speed, & nothingness; then shatter in crystal spray on the cobblestones that refused to be paved over with tarmac

 

heavy-eyes half-lidded in afternoon sun, warm beer bottle & the russian dance-band playing a Georgian song, masturbating, great gouts of cerebro-spinal fluid jetting while my hair dries and the needle skips a groove, east european grit on the weathered vinyl, cracks & hisses from an outdated economic system.

 

we passed by the greasy smears on the highway, exfoliated prints of unknown and forgotten, on our way to another nowhere we could burn brightly in just as unknown, just as forgotten

 

and we danced in the street like prophets, even when the people wouldn’t give us flowers, spinning our hair our arms our legs, each flung out into ecliptic, eccentric orbits, new energy, new thrust, new patterns, we spun like dervishes until the mezuezzin called us home, dawn cracking above the rooftop antennae like a faded orchid  [clothes rent to threads]

 

and danced in the streets mad as prophets, with our shirts in tatters and our coats beneath our feet; and even when the people no longer gave us flowers our limbs would find new orbits...

 

thrust our collective pelvis like a dog in heat against the trouser leg of society

 

and the lighting slammed down again, illuminating earth and sky in a molten roar, incandescent heat and energy, the tree that shattered behind us while the rain poured down our upturned faces, drinking in the ecstacy

 

and the trains that roll across the earth, and the plains, and through the mountains, and as they pull up squealing into stations we would dismount, giddy, not caring what village, town, country district we had stumbled into, heading straight for the bar  how cheap the wine was and how watery the beer

 

half mad from hunger & naked in the snow, negative angels

 

and we would copulate in mid-air, suspended by fish-hooks over squares and courtyards of the city, our bodies merged with wire and each other

 

& the sun went through us as though an x-ray, throwing pantographs of our bones on the living ground

 

silhouettes, ghost dances on the street [skeleton copulating]

 

shivered the cities down to the last radio [“HOWL”]

 

we are those who won’t plug in, obstinate dreamings in black & red on manual typewriters (a ring, a corona around my head, bitter, dusty liqueurs distilled from oil of Underwood), obsolete analog 10-human-digit-al technology walkabout in a post-industrial dreamtime

 

or the nights we threw the TV out the window into the bonfire built in the street; we daubed our faces with stolen lipstick and tempera, swept back our hair with egg yolk and flour, and sang the dance of electricity in the red dawn of flames and the rotating lights of police cars

 

lice in the hair

 

dancing, singing on burnt-out, stripped cars, drinking broken glass

 

in the fever of ecstasy we walked on the moon, leaving our naked footprints in the soundless, timeless space.

 

finding heads in the rubbish-bins, we would look for messages on the underpass, tales whispered by flower-seller and the hare-krishnas in the street

 

the drunk who pressed the scrap of paper into my hand waiting for the bus—a warning about milk [how he smelled, week-old cheese, the sun, ripe bitter yet..., the other guy with the forehead wound nodding on the subway, the girls moving aside, giggling nervous

 

the old woman with the pigeons in her bag (some were just bones) shouting at us, the last passenger in the one o’clock snowstorm “American business, bank business, big bank business”

 

Dixie Lee telling [her] to masturbate in the library because it is warm, screaming at us for stealing his woman (his friend picked at his dirty bandage—a burn—amused), stumbling raw&red-faced, from the tram window, [skeletal] in a medieval jacket

 

 

& men come on to me in bus, train stations. the guy in the purple dzsogging “boy-boy love?” hopelessly. & thown out of the freight yard at midnight.

 

typing on streams of cash register tape, photographs of shoes, lights behind mirrors nailed to the floor & from under the linoleum

 

angelheaded in the city of night

 

leap from bridges or climb at midnight [singing in choirs]

 

making the table dance (rise my table, rise! she incanted) she had running water, but the toilet was outside in a whitewashed shed papered with gardening magazines

 

the Swedish art-student with the nose-ring telling me breathlessly of macaroni soup: two bouillon cubes and macaroni. she’d been eating that for a week.


 

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